


Erotica (or, Eric & Celandine)

by Naughty_Yorick



Series: The Alphabet Game [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Books, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Erotica, Love Confessions, M/M, Unrequited Lust, not for long though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27215470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Oh. It wasthatsort of book. Erotica. No wonder Jaskier had hidden it. Geralt felt a little guilty. He should return the book to Jaskier’s bag and pretend he’d never even seen it, let alone read some of it. And yet...Geralt finds a book hidden in the bottom of Jaskier's pack. Curious about what it is, he reads it. Even more curiously: he enjoys it. A lot. But why do the characters of Eric and Celandine seem so familiar, and why does he recognise the name of the author? Whocouldthis J.A. Pankratz be?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Alphabet Game [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983026
Comments: 33
Kudos: 478





	Erotica (or, Eric & Celandine)

**Author's Note:**

> I challenged myself to write a fic for every letter of the alphabet. I took each letter, plugged it into a random word generator and wrote a fic based on whichever word it gave me. This letter is "E", and the word is "erotica", which is proof that sometimes I am very, very lucky. See more of my Alphabet Challenge on my tumblr, [here!](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/post/632799468062916608/alphabet-game-master-post)

Geralt found the slim, cheap-feeling book in Jaskier’s pack while looking for a spare tunic. Jaskier had been forced to make a rather hasty escape from a potential lover - including a brief swim across a small lake - and was warming himself in the tub in their rented room while Geralt sought out dry clothes for him. 

The book was wrapped in one of Jaskier’s shirts and it fell onto the floor as Geralt pulled it out of the bag. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, reading the title. _Running Away with the Wolf_ by _J.A. Pankratz._ He felt like he knew that name, but couldn’t place where from. Odd.

The cover was blank - just the title and name of the author - and he opened it up, wondering why it had been buried in Jaskier’s bag. He skimmed the first page. It appeared to be about a young man, an artist by the name of Joren. The text described in detail his paint-stained fingers. The artist called himself Celandine, and he refused to answer to anything else.

The prose was flowery, but engaging, and Geralt found himself drawn in. He skipped ahead - and soon another character was introduced. A solider? A fighter? There was a full page and a half describing the man - Eric, apparently - which Geralt skimmed over, uninterested. The two men were travelling together, apparently heading to Eric’s northern mountain home, with the odd fight with bandits or mercenaries along the way. 

He flipped through pages at random until a phrase leapt out at him. He paused, flipping back.

_– Celandine gripped Eric’s mighty cock in his hand, drawing him out to –_

Oh. _Oh_. It was _that_ sort of book. _Erotica._ No wonder Jaskier had hidden it. Geralt felt a little guilty. He should return the book to Jaskier’s bag and pretend he’d never even seen it, let _alone_ read some of it.

Yet…

Jaskier would be in the bath for a while; he always did like to take his time. 

Geralt leafed through the pages, stopping every so often to read a brief paragraph, a couple of pages. Celandine and Eric certainly were very busy. 

There were trysts in the woods, pressed against trees or quiet and shuffling beneath blankets on the cold ground. There was an extremely detailed scene in an inn involving mouths and fingers and a whole sentence dedicated to the taste of Eric’s come. When the plot moved to the mountains and Eric’s wintery home, there were shared baths and beds and a quite phenomenal amount of fucking. Geralt found himself especially drawn to a scene told from Eric’s point of view where Celandine took charge after some sort of wild escape, Eric’s narrative lingering indulgently on the feeling of Celandine inside him, filling him up.

Geralt could feel his own cock stiffening in his breeches. 

From the other room, he could hear the soft splashing noise of Jaskier moving about in the tub, cleaning himself, and Geralt was suddenly struck with the image of Jaskier, wet and naked, rubbing the sponge across his skin, the hair on his chest slicked down, his body clothed in nothing but bubbles.

Despite all common sense, all notions of decency or proprietary, Geralt read on. He read how Celandine brought Eric to orgasm over and over - how Eric pleasured Celandine in new, thrilling ways. It was intoxicating.

There was a scene near the end where the lovers shared a bed - not fucking, for once - just enjoying each other’s space, gazing at each other. The scene described Eric’s eyes - they were green, unnaturally so, and Celandine’s chapters often spoke about them in detail, pouring over them despite their apparent inhuman colour. They kissed, and Celandine described his lover in the overblown, flowery language he often did - naming Eric as his _great green-eyed wolf._

And then Geralt was struck with a sudden thought. He frowned, and flicked back to the beginning of the book, to the paragraphs he’d skipped over that gave a more thorough description of Eric’s appearance. Tall, broad - well built, but covered in scars. He had ashy blond hair, and another scar creeping across one eye. His eyes were green, his teeth sharp - not quite fangs. Geralt had gotten it wrong: he wasn’t a solider, but a trained fighter - both a nobleman and a hunter. He wore a lot of black. He carried his sword on his back.

Geralt read the page and a half again. He read it three times. _But my eyes are yellow,_ was all he could think.

He skimmed back even further, looking for the description of Celandine which he’d also skipped over rather hastily. There: artistic, dramatic, loud. Tall, with dark hair that was always getting in his eyes. Hirsute - more so than Eric. Blue eyes.

Geralt thought about Jaskier in the bath once more. He shut the book and read the author’s name again. And then, like a creature emerging from hibernation, the memory surfaced. 

_Oh_. So _that_ was how he knew that name.

The book in one hand and the spare shirt in the other, he made his way back to the other room where Jaskier was still bathing.

“Jaskier…” it was all he could manage. 

Jaskier turned, the water rippling around him. He looked pleased to see him - he was always bloody pleased to see him - but his expression quickly changed as his eyes darted down and he spotted Geralt’s rather obvious erection straining against the fabric of his trousers.

He blushed. “Um…”

Geralt knelt down beside the tub. He offered the book to Jaskier, who took it in a damp hand and peered at it with a little frown - then slowly dawning horror.

“I can explain–” He began, the smell of fear lemony on his skin, “I, ah…” 

“You wrote this? Eric and Celandine?”

“No one was supposed to see it!” He said, quickly, “I just… I just wrote it all down to try and get it out, you know, but when I started writing it I couldn’t stop and it turned into this whole _thing_ , and then, _fuck_ , Priscilla found the manuscript in my bag last winter and she read it and told me how good it was, and that I should have it bound, and…” he sighed. “There’s only one copy,” he said, “Pris said I should try and sell it but I refused. I didn’t want anyone to recognise…”

“Us?”

Jaskier nodded, silently.

“So it _is_ us, then?”

Jaskier sank lower in the bath. “Is it that obvious?”

“Actually,” said Geralt, charitably, “I didn’t realise at first.”

“When did you realise?”

Geralt thought. “Near the end. When they’re sharing a bed and Celandine calls Eric his great green-eyed wolf.”

“Really?” Jaskier looked at him with surprise. “But that’s so late in the story! There’s a whole bit at the start where I described you - ah, I mean, Eric - in terrible detail. I thought it would have been obvious from that, let alone all the fighting and grumbling and cursing he does.”

Geralt shrugged. “I skipped a lot of the descriptions. The rest was a lot more interesting.”

Jaskier’s face turned so pink Geralt was amazed the bath water didn’t start to boil around him. “Oh,” he squeaked. “You read… the rest?”

“Some of it. I flipped through. There were a few moments that stood out.”

“…Such as?”

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heart fluttering faster. The lemony fear smell was gone, replaced with something rich and salty. He tried very hard not to let himself look at his naked form beneath the water.

“The part in the woods,” he said, “the first time. Against the tree.”

“Right….” the word sounded a little strangled as Jaskier said it.

“And…” Geralt paused as Jaskier looked at him expectantly. “The cocksucking in the inn. That part was very… engaging.”

Jaskier was definitely squirming, now, and there weren’t enough bubbles in the world to hide that he too was growing aroused.

“It was interesting reading it from Celandine’s point of view,” he continued. “What he was thinking, how he felt… But…”

“Yes?”

“The part after they escape the keep, I think that part was, hmm… best.”

Jaskier thought for a moment, then his eyes went wide. “O-oh?”

“It was very vivid. I could really imagine how Eric felt. How it felt to have Celandine inside him. I could picture it. I can _still_ picture it.”

“Oh _fuck_ , Geralt…”

The book went flying across the room and Jaskier threw an arm around him, pulling him closer. Geralt was more than willing to oblige as Jaskier’s wet skin pressed against him, hot and slick and smelling of salt and lavender. He was so lost in that smell that he lost his balance, and found himself tumbling into the bath, sending water splashing over the sides as he landed rather awkwardly on top of Jaskier.

Jaskier didn’t even hesitate, wrapping his arms around Geralt and kissing him fiercely. Geralt returned the kiss with equal force, Jaskier’s mouth willingly opening beneath him as their tongues explored the new feeling of each other’s lips. Geralt gave a little tug on Jaskier’s lower lip - something that had cropped up in his book more than once - and Jaskier groaned beneath him, his hips jutting against Geralt’s crotch.

Geralt grinned, and Jaskier pulled away, panting.

“Oh,” he said, “this isn’t fair, you’re _cheating_.”

“Hmm…” Geralt moved away from his lips, down his jaw and towards his neck, sucking lightly at the soft skin. Jaskier gasped again, wriggling.

“Do you want to…” Jaskier began, but his words were cut off by a little moan as Geralt’s hand found its way to his cock, giving it a tight squeeze.

“I do,” Geralt whispered into his ear, lowly.

“There’s oil in my pack…” Jaskier breathed, “But - ah - we should get out of the bath first.”

Geralt pulled back, uncaring for how thoroughly soaked his clothes were, only able to think about how flushed and gorgeous Jaskier looked, his skin glistening in the low light. With only a little distraction they managed to extract themselves from the tub, Geralt pulling off his sodden tunic and trousers while Jaskier rifled through his bag.

When Jaskier returned, Geralt was lying on the narrow bed, waiting for him. He felt a little self conscious - like he was throwing himself at his friend, like Jaskier might have suddenly changed his mind - but Jaskier’s expression when he saw him pushed all those thoughts aside. He stalked towards the bed, his eyes glinting, the little bottle gripped tightly in one hand.

In a fluid movement, Jaskier swung a leg over Geralt’s hips, straddling him. Geralt gazed up at him, his slow heart thudding, his prick aching. Jaskier grinned down at him, apparently enjoying drawing this out.

“So…” he leant down, pressing a hand either side of Geralt’s head, his lips dancing just above Geralt’s skin, “You liked the book?”

Geralt swallowed. “I did.”

Jaskier arched backwards slowly, dragging his hands along Geralt’s bare torso, fingers fluttering over his scars.

“But you _really_ liked the part with Celandine and Eric, after Eric rescues him from the keep? In their room…” Jaskier’s hand crept lower, his fingers tangling briefly in Geralt’s pubic hair before lightly dancing across his cock, “What was it Eric said?” Jaskier mused, as if he didn’t already know, “Ah yes. I remember. I _should_ remember, after all: I wrote it.”

He lowered himself back down, their chests pressed together, his lips dangerously close to Geralt’s ear. “He said, _fill me up._ Is that what you want, Geralt?” Jaskier gave his earlobe a little nip. “Do you want me to fill you up?”

Geralt bucked his hips against Jaskier with an unrestrained groan. He did. Fuck - he _did_ , and he hadn’t even realised how much he wanted it until he’d seen it written out in front of him in meticulous, delicious detail.

“Yes,” he murmured, “ _Yes_ , Jaskier.”

Jaskier hummed, pleased. “My great white wolf…” he muttered, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s neck, “My darling witcher…”

Geralt couldn’t say that he’d ever been one for pet names, but hearing Jaskier say it sent shudders down his body, igniting his skin. He hummed as Jaskier’s lips drifted across his collar bone, across the scarred map of his chest, then arched his back instinctively as he sucked, lightly, at one of his nipples. It was like electricity coursing in his veins - like adrenaline and magic and chaos - as Jaskier's mouth traced the line of his torso then down his stomach. He nuzzled against Geralt's waiting prick with a content little sigh before pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to it, his tongue exploring the tip, lips tight around him for a moment before releasing him once more.

Geralt could only gasp Jaskier's name, his head spinning, his fingers gripping the sheets beneath his hands.

“How about you roll over for me, hmm?” Jaskier murmured against him.

Geralt didn’t need telling twice.

~

Later, after Jaskier had cleaned them both up, they nestled down between the sheets of the bed, Jaskier’s head resting on Geralt’s chest. His fingers were drumming out a nervous beat against Geralt’s skin.

“So…” he said, cautiously, “the book…”

“Hmm?”

“Did you happen to read the ending? Or just, ah, the sexy bits?”

Geralt chuckled. “If I say I only read the sex scenes, I fear you’ll judge me for it. Why?”

Jaskier moved a little against him. He seemed, suddenly, nervous. “It’s just… well, the ending was rather important, you see.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it’s not _just_ about passionate, shirt-ripping sex, is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

There was a hot little puff of breath against Geralt’s chest as Jaskier sighed. “No, it isn’t.”

He lapsed into silence once more. Geralt tried to think back to the book, the few parts he had read. It had been intense and electric, all want and need and fumbling, grabbing hands. Which would make sense, of course: Jaskier was known for his voracious appetites.

Although - no. That was wrong. _Yes_ , Jaskier had a lot of sex, but it wasn’t _about_ that, Geralt slowly realised. Each of his lovers came with a tale about their lives, the colour of their hair, the softness of their skin. Each one was a love story, even if it only lasted a single night. It was never _just_ sex, for Jaskier. Even the book had focused on emotions and feelings and _yearning_ \- like looking for a home.

But that was different. That was Celandine and Eric, not Jaskier and Geralt. But could it be?

“Tell me how it ends,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down Jaskier’s naked back.

“Ah…” Lemons and a quickened heartbeat. “They, um, vigorously fuck?”

Geralt laughed. “Tell me how it _really_ ends.”

Jaskier was silent, for a moment, then spoke - talking into Geralt’s chest, his fingers still twitching.

“Celandine and Eric return North,” he said, slowly, “and they realise that they’ve both been bloody fools, ignoring their own feelings under the false impression that the other doesn’t feel the same. They both think it’s just fucking, as far as the other is concerned, but of course it isn’t. So as they return North they realise that actually, they’re quite desperately in love. Um…” He pulled the blanket up around him, as if it could hide him. “They vigorously fuck as well, of course,” he added with forced light-heartedness. “After all the confessions.”

Geralt’s hand kept moving up and down Jaskier’s back slowly and deliberately, but his mind was racing. Just a few hours ago, he hadn’t even realised that Jaskier wanted to shag him, _let alone_ that Jaskier was secretly, desperately in love with him.

And - _gods_ \- it felt good. It felt _so_ good. Suddenly everything felt clear - because of course Jaskier was attractive, and if Geralt had known about his more lewd desires years ago he would have fulfilled them happily and - as Jaskier had said - vigorously. But realising that it was more than just admiring him from afar made Geralt realise his own desires - the surprising little feelings he’d tried to push away.

It was the reason why he missed Jaskier on long winters apart, why he’d started to enjoy the sound of string-plucking and mumbled lyrics. Why he’d stand in between Jaskier and a sword or a monster or _anything_ again and again, despite how often he managed to put himself in danger. Why, when he realised that Jaskier had written a whole book about them fucking, he felt only a kind of hot, swelling tug instead of embarrassment or even anger - either of which would have been a fair response. 

“Jaskier,” he said, trying to turn the swirling thoughts in his head into something comprehensible, “Look at me, Jaskier.”

Jaskier peered up. His brow was furrowed, nervous - he was waiting for a blow. Geralt couldn’t stand it. He shifted them both, edging himself down as he pulled Jaskier up until their faces were level. He kissed him - drawing it out, feeling Jaskier melt against him. When he finally pulled away, Jaskier’s expression had softened, his lips pink, his hair tousled around his head. Geralt pressed their foreheads together, breathing him in.

“I don’t know about ‘desperately’,” he said quietly.

“No?”

“Hmm… too poetic.”

“Of course.”

Geralt kissed him again, soft and quick. “But I _do_ ,” he muttered, barely louder than a whisper, “love you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm… yes.” 

Their lips brushed - just the faintest touch, a promise of more.

“I love you too,” Jaskier sighed, “although I assume you’ve probably figured that out already.”

“If it helps,” Geralt replied, “I hadn’t realised until you told me the end of the book.”

“I’m not sure that _does_ help.” 

“Speaking of the book…” 

Geralt slipped his arm around Jaskier, and in a deft movement he spun them both around, so Jaskier was now beneath him, between his arms. Jaskier made a little sound of surprise, but didn’t move, his hands pressed to Geralt’s chest as he peered up at him.

“Yes?” He said, a little breathlessly.

“Do you intend to write a sequel?”

“Perhaps,” said Jaskier, as his hands made their way to Geralt’s waist, his thumbs pressing into his hips, “if inspiration strikes. Why?” He asked, cheekily. “Do you have any ideas?”

Geralt grinned. “A few.”


End file.
